


The Demon Barber of Maple Avenue

by heyshalina, marshmallowfluff



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: And Is Oblivious About The Inner Workings Of Salons, Blood and Gore, Cheese Graters Used In Horrible Ways, Ghouls, Hair-pulling, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Scott is a bro, Sloppy Makeouts, Stiles Needs A Haircut, Twerking, but derek saves him, hair-cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:32:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1264909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyshalina/pseuds/heyshalina, https://archiveofourown.org/users/marshmallowfluff/pseuds/marshmallowfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles woke up on a Friday with his hair far too long for his own comfort, he decided he needed a haircut. He was not expecting the whole situation to end with Derek finally succumbing to their mutual sexual tension.</p><p>Or the ghouls. He especially wasn't expecting to be eaten by ghouls.</p><p>Basically, Stiles doesn't know anything super useful that's not supernatural-related. He has excellent butt-dialing skills, though, so that's a plus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Demon Barber of Maple Avenue

**Author's Note:**

> Our second collaboration.
> 
> Heyshalina's plot-bunny. Marshmallowfluff's stunning execution. Heyshalina helped a little.
> 
> Or in other words, marshmallowfluff's sense of modesty is exorbitant, and this was heyshalina's idea all along.

Stiles woke up on Friday with strands of hair tickling his noise and his ears itchy.

This didn't fly. It wasn't even relatively close to the realm of being able to fly.

Stiles begrudgingly pulled himself out of his bed, flipping back his covers and pausing in a sitting position on the mattress. He wiggled his long toes in the carpet and let out a yawn before summoning the will to face the day. It was spring break for all imprisoned children at Beacon Hill High School, which spelled out parties, get-togethers, benders, horrible teachers issuing homework, and most importantly, sleeping late. It was the last Friday of spring break, however, which meant that most teenagers had had their fill of headaches and excessive vomiting and were opting to stay inside, eat leftover pizza, and spend the day in front of the TV. Stiles glanced over at the clock, moaning when he saw the bright red lights on his side table glare 9:23 AM at him. Scott wouldn't be awake until at least noon, eleven if he was really motivated to have an all-day COD marathon with Isaac.

Stiles ran a hand through his hair, lip upturning when he discovered he could fist it within his fingers. January had been a hectic month: a yeti decided that Beacon Hills, where the simple threat of half a centimeter of snow sent townspeople into zombie-apocalypse-bunker panics, was a great place to settle down, and was quickly followed by a coven of witches that took a particular liking to Scott's face and Isaac's hair. Then came the biggest threat of them all: finals.

Allison had walked in on Stiles and Lydia asleep over seven AP textbooks in Scott's bedroom during a movie night and subsequently issued an intervention, complete with a shopping trip with an allotted two hours in GameStop.

Stiles dragged his hand down his face, snatching his cell phone off of his side table and shoving it into his pocket as he trudged down the hall to the bathroom. He blindly brushed his teeth and splashed some water on his face before peering through squinted eyelids to look at the mirror. He shook his hands through his hair, letting it fall over his face. Strands drifted over parts of his eyebrows, tickling the space underneath. Stiles scratched at his ear.

That was the last straw.

Stiles trekked down the stairwell into the kitchen, stretching his arms. His dad was off work this week; they had spent some time together for once without having to fear for their lives. Hell, they had even gone fishing. Neither of them knew how to fish, but the sentiment was there.

"Dad?" Stiles called, opening the fridge, inspecting for contraband. He found half a pound of pork bacon hidden amongst the turkey bacon and shook his head. He heaved half a melon of cantaloupe onto the counter and called it breakfast. "Dad, are you home? You were right, my hair's too long, it needs to be slaughtered and removed from my scalp for treason."

Silence answered him. He removed the plastic wrap from the cantaloupe and grabbed a spoon. He spent a moment deliberating the act of grabbing a bowl and ultimately decided against it, shrugging as he moved toward the living room.

"I really need a haircut," Stiles shouted to the house. "I don't care if you're secretly marathoning _Maury_ , you know, he's not the father!"

Something caught Stiles' eye, and he turned towards the kitchen table, plucking a sticky-note from where it was plastered to the wooden surface. As he read it, Stiles' smile fell, and he dropped the note back onto the table, then turned to the living room and walked forward to sink onto the couch cushions with a sigh. He pulled out his phone, spoon nestled between his lips.

 _I thought you weren't working this week,_ he sent, flopping his arm down onto the couch. A few minutes into a _Spongebob_ cartoon later, his phone vibrated, a message from his dad flashing on the screen.

_I know. Emergency – Deputy Darcy in the hospital, car crash drunk driver. Will be working until Monday night at least, sorry kiddo._

Stiles moped and kicked up his feet onto the coffee table, spooning cantaloupe into his mouth and fiddling with a strand of hair between his fingertips. He sighed dejectedly as he carded his fingers through his hair. What was with the way hair stayed a perfectly reasonable length for a while and then _bam_ , suddenly it was too long, with no in-between? One moment, Stiles was doing fantastic things with mousse, and now he wasn't sure his splendid brown locks could be tamed even with concrete. It was so typical of his life that his dad had been called unexpectedly to work on the very day that Stiles' head decided that becoming a Chia Pet sounded like a super fun idea.

Using both hands, Stiles smoothed his hair up and pressed it into a Mohawk. When he let go, bangs he'd forgotten he had flopped into his eyes and he blew them out of the way with a moody pout. This hadn't been an issue for a few years now, not since he started rocking the buzz cut. When he was a little kid and life as a sheriff's deputy wasn't suiting the Stilinski family's financial needs as well as one might assume, Stiles' mom had always cut his hair.

She would sit him up on the bathroom counter and drape a towel around his shoulders and use funny accents to pretend to be foreign hairdressers. There was Juliette, the French stylist with a special dislike of split ends, who said "Non, non, _non_ " whenever she made a mistake; Roberta, the Latina queen of volume who would tease up Stiles' hair with the comb before trimming the ends; and Charlene, the Valley Girl fresh out of beauty school who never stopped talking and always cut his bangs a little too much.

The characters had gotten to be such a part of Stiles' life that he used to request different ones for his moods. Juliette was a good listener even if Stiles thought what he was upset about was sort of stupid, Roberta gave great advice about anything from whether or not he should wear a suit to school to impress Lydia to how best to deal with Jackson's bullying, and Charlene showered him with nonstop compliments when he was feeling sad.

After his mom died, his dad continued to cut his hair for him, but he was never one for doing voices so it was bye-bye to Juliette, Roberta and Charlene. Instead, Sheriff Stilinski brought the stool in from the closet for him to stand on and helped Stiles apply shaving cream to his face. Then he'd give Stiles an empty razor and allow him to pretend to shave, scraping off the cream with it while the Sheriff trimmed his hair. It wasn't like it was with mom, it never could be, but it was nice.

Then in the seventh grade Stiles got lice from Scott, and his dad, in a panic, shaved off his hair before Melissa was able to tell him about mayonnaise. Stiles decided to keep it that way anyway, because he thought it looked sort of cool, like he was in the army or something.

But after spending sophomore year running around trying to catch up with Scott and his brand new life, Stiles, like any regular teenager, wanted to reinvent himself in a way that didn't involve contracting lycanthropy (looking at you, Jackson Whittemore). So, he grew out his hair, and found that he liked it that way. It slimmed him down and brought out his cheekbones and his eyes. Yeah, guys actually cared about that kind of stuff. _Seriously_ , Isaac owned a different scarf for every single outfit, dammit!

However, while Stiles enjoyed how he looked when his hair was _just_ the right length for a dollop of mousse and some quick styling (for about thirty minutes) to get that just-rolled-out-of-bed look, he didn't want the world to see him with whatever shag-mullet-thing his hair was doing right now. Unless long hair came with complementary marijuana, he'd pass, thanks. Yeah, Stiles Stilinski actually cared how the world sees him, despite the fact that he was pretty much nonexistent on the social hierarchy anyway.

Stiles tossed his phone from one hand to the other, biting his lip in thought. He knew that he couldn't go out in public like this. It was the last weekend of spring break, which meant Scott or Lydia would inevitably call or use a battering ram to knock through his front door to announce that some social event was taking place. He had to get his hair cut _today_.

Before he could change his mind, Stiles pushed aside his melon and bolted into the kitchen, skidding on the wood floors with his socks and pulling open the drawers of pamphlets and business cards beneath the house phone. He found the one for his dad's barber and ran back into the living room, launching over the back of the couch onto the cushions. The empty room gave him an 8.5.

Stiles stared at the pamphlet in inner turmoil for a few minutes, deliberating in his head. He had never, ever been to a barber shop before. He didn't know what it was like, but he assumed that there was some sort of etiquette, from what he had caught from what he'd seen on television. Etiquette that Stiles Stilinski simply did not have.

Stiles hung his head in thought, which made his bangs flop back down into his face. He angrily huffed them away and dialed the number. It was time for a freaking hair cut.

The woman on the other end of the line greeted him with "Hello, this is Natalie from the Hair Saloon For Men, how can I help you?"

Stiles glanced down at the business card in his hand and cursed his father for regularly attending a barber shop that had a freaking _pun in its name_ , because that was never a good sign. Stiles had learned his lesson after Custard's Last Stand, the ice cream shop that had had Stiles vomiting cotton-candy-and-bubblegum-flavored sherbet in front of the toilet for the whole evening. And after For Cod's Sake, which rendered him bedridden with stomach cramps for twenty-four hours and necessitated his father to stay home from work so that he could empty out the puke bucket every forty minutes. And he could never forget En-Thai-Sing, the Thai place that had given Stiles explosive diarrhea for three days. It had been the lowest point in his life, a time that only his father knew about, and only because he'd been forced to buy four new packages of toilet paper throughout its duration. And also Scott, because he had sat on the phone with Stiles for two and a half hours on day two, consoling him while he sobbed pathetically (he had been scared he’d never be able to leave the bathroom again).

So maybe Stiles had needed a couple attempts to learn his lesson about punny restaurants, but learn it he did. And that lesson was that _nothing good came out of businesses with punny names_ , except maybe red curry, because if one thing could be said about En-Thai-Sing to counteract the raging hemorrhoid Stiles had suffered as a result of seventy-two hours spent on the john, it was that they made some pretty badass red curry.

Oh well. Maybe it was just _restaurants_ with punny names.

"I'd like to make an appointment?" asked Stiles, not exactly knowing what he was supposed to say.

"When would you like it?" inquired Natalie.

"As soon as possible?" asked Stiles right back.

There was a shuffling noise. "We have an opening in thirty minutes. What's your name?"

"Stiles Stilinski?" He didn’t even know how he had managed to make that a question.

There was a sound of warm acknowledgement. "Ah! Are you Sheriff Stilinski's boy?"

"Yes?"

"We've been wondering when you'd come by, ever since you started growing your hair out again."

"Okay?" Stiles said, wondering how a bunch of barbers he didn't know could possibly have known he'd been growing his hair back out. He didn't get out that much.

"Your appointment is at 11:30. See you then, Mr. Stilinski."

"Bye?" asked Stiles before hanging up. The next thing he did was decide that he'd have to work on his appointment-making etiquette. Then he went upstairs to get a hoodie so that he could cover his hair with the hood in case he saw anyone he knew on the way to the Hair Saloon For Men.

He was searching for his favorite red hoodie, but couldn't find it for the life of him, so he slipped his navy one over his head and flipped up the hood, attempting to pull back his bangs and hide them underneath the fabric. It didn't work.

Obviously Scott texted him two minutes before he was out the door, wanting him to come over to engage in an epic war of Halo. Apparently Isaac wasn’t in the mood for Call Of Duty today. Stiles texted Scott back saying that he was going to get a haircut.

 _whoa, rlly?_ Scott replied, because he was a heathen when it came to texting in complete sentences. He was lucky he made up for it with his adorable dimples and ridiculous ability to pine. _where's ur dad?_

 _Work_ , Stiles typed, walking out to his Jeep, keeping an eye out for the random passerby or anyone that could ruin his life by posting pictures of him on the internet. If he got flash mobbed he was going to slap someone.

 _sorry, man_ , Scott said eloquently. _come over after? isaac keeps winning_.

Stiles paused behind the wheel of the car, hesitating putting the key into the ignition. He considered the injustice being placed upon his best friend and then nodded to himself. _Only if we play Mario Kart._

Scott's reply was immediate. _duh._

 _K,_ Stiles texted back, starting the engine. He looked down at his phone before adding, _Be the alpha, scott. Be the alpha_.

Scott sent back an emoticon that made Stiles feel embarrassed by association, and Stiles dropped his phone into his cup holder before pulling out of the driveway and out onto the road towards the barber shop.

The Hair Saloon For Men was frighteningly punny. The glass doors had saloon doors, like from the Wild Wild West, painted onto them, and the glass front window had a spiffy-looking cowboy wielding two hair driers instead of pistols. Stiles felt mildly uncomfortable as he walked through the saloon-painted doors, like he was betraying the oath he'd made to himself after recovering from En-Thai-Sing: that he'd never patron a punny business again.

 _It's probably just punny restaurants_ , he reminded himself. _It's not like anything bad can happen in a barber shop_.

 _Barber surgeons in the Middle Ages_ , whispered a little voice in the back of his head. _Sweeney Todd_. He told it to shut up.

"Hello!" greeted Natalie as the bell on the door tinkled. "Mr. Stilinski?"

"Yes?" asked Stiles, finally pulling down his hood and brushing his fingers back through his bangs to clear his vision.

"We'll be ready for you in a few minutes, we're just clearing up the room."

"Okay?" Stiles asked, before remembering that he'd decided that hair appointment etiquette included not finishing every sentence with an interrogative. "That's fine, I can wait."

Natalie smiled at him, and Stiles stood awkwardly just inside the door, swaying back and forth a bit as he supported his weight on alternating feet. Natalie looked back up at him and smiled.

"You can take a seat," she offered, nodding to the row of chairs against the wall, and Stiles nodded.

"Yeah, I know," he said decisively, trying to look like he'd been perfectly aware that sitting down at the barber shop was a thing you could do. He took a step sideways towards the nearest chair. Natalie looked back down at her computer. He took another step. Then another. Then he turned and walked confidently towards the chair.

He had just started lowering himself into it when Natalie called to him. "Stiles, we're ready for you now!"

He jumped up from his half-crouched over position and his bangs fell back into his eyes. He flicked his hair out of his face with a jerk of his head, and felt sort of like Justin Bieber, _before_ the guy cut off his hair because people said he looked like a lesbian.

In a moment of fear, Stiles glanced across the room at his reflection in one of the mirrors. Did _he_ look like a lesbian? He didn't want to look like a lesbian.

Not that lesbians were bad or anything. But lesbians were only attracted to women, technically. He didn't want that kind of label applied to him.

Not that sexuality wasn't fluid. Not that a lesbian could _only_ date women her whole life. What Stiles meant was, it was perfectly fine if a lesbian found a man that she liked and wanted to date him. Just like it was totally possible and totally cool if, say, a guy in his early twenties with an affinity for leather jackets who had been relatively straight his whole life decided that a pale, skinny teenage boy was date-worthy. You know, hypothetically.

It's just that Stiles wasn't a lesbian, that's all he was saying.

"Follow me," Natalie told him, gesturing for him to walk behind her as she led him towards a door that was ajar in the back of the room. He glanced around at the barber chairs they were passing on the way.

"Why aren't we just using one of these?" he asked, feeling that a legitimate question was an okay use of an interrogative.

"Oh, these are only for styling. We use the back room for trims."

"Oh, yeah, I knew that," Stiles nodded, because it was ridiculous for a seventeen-year-old to not know the ins and outs of getting one's hair cut.

In the back room stood another woman and a man. They smiled cordially at him.

"Hello, Stiles!" the barber greeted. "Just take a seat here and we'll get you settled."

He waved Stiles over to the barber chair, which looked similar to those in the front of the shop, but had a couple differences that Stiles assumed had to do with the necessary steps in getting one's hair trimmed as opposed to getting it styled.

He went over and sat in the partially reclined, cushioned chair, pulling off his blue hoodie. Natalie took it from him and put it on a table in the corner of the room. The other woman smiled at him and moved to situate him in the seat.

"We're all so excited to finally meet you," she told him. "Ever since you started growing your hair out again, we've been hoping you'd come by." She took the leather cuffs on the armrests and gently wrapped them around his wrists, buckling and tightening them.

"Yeah," Stiles nodded. "Natalie told me that over the phone." He didn't mention how weird it was that a few complete strangers were so in tune to the reproduction of his hair follicles, because they seemed nice enough, and his dad was a regular patron of theirs so he didn't want to insult them.

The woman, whose name was "Molly," as Stiles read on her name tag, moved to wrap a similar leather strap across his forehead, probably to keep his head still during the trim. "Well, she probably didn't mention how worried we were! You didn't come in for so long, and then the Sheriff told us that he cut your hair himself at home, and we thought we'd never get to meet his lovely son!"

"It's true. But we're glad you're here now." Stiles turned to see the barber smiling warmly at him, sharpening a gleaming razor on a thick, leather strop.

Stiles furrowed his brows in confusion. "I didn't think people still used old-fashioned razors," he said, and Molly finished binding his ankles to the footrest of the chair.

"No, most people don't," the barber agreed, continuing to sharpen his blade.

Stiles wiggled in the chair's restraints, suddenly feeling mildly uncomfortable and a little claustrophobic. "Huh, I never thought getting a haircut needed all this..."

Then he stopped, closing his eyes for a moment, before opening them and looking around at the barber and his two assistants, raising his eyebrows in resignation.

"This _isn't_ normal, is it?" The three of them continued staring, smiles growing wider by the second. Of course. He sighed and shook his head. "No. I'm an idiot."

"How much do you want taken off, Stiles?" The barber asked, coming closer to him. A continued chorus of _Oh shit, oh shit_ was singing in Stiles' head as the barber loomed over him, fingering a long strand of his hair. "An inch or two... We could just chop it all off, really."

Molly tightened the strap on his other arms. The straps cut off his circulation severely; he could feel his pulse in his forearms, and could already feel his fingers going slightly numb. He grinded his teeth and started to jerk his chin up, inhibited by the strap across his forehead. Natalie placed a gentle hand on his chin, holding it between her pointer knuckle and thumb. Molly took a bucket and a few curved half PVC pipe-looking contraptions out of the corner as the barber pulled forward a table of tools, among it scissors and other regular hair-cutting items, and also medieval torture-device-esque razors and screws. Molly secured the half-pipes beneath the armrest leading down to the buckets, which she placed on the floor. Stiles tried to keep his cool, but his breathing was starting to come out in gasps. He gritted his teeth and attempted to assess the situation. He couldn't reach his phone in his pocket. His dad was at work. He hadn’t told Scott _where_ he was getting his hair cut or _when,_ and there had been absolutely no one in the front room of the shop and he was an absolute _moron_. He had to buy time to figure something out and get the hell out of Dodge. So he decided to do what he did best.

Be a little shit and stall.

"How do you know my name?" He asked, trying not to tremble like a wimp. His ankles chaffed uncomfortably, and Natalie's thumbnail was leaving an imprint on his chin. He flexed his obviously sexy, chiseled jaw in hopes of making her swoon. It didn't work.

"Your father just can't stop talking about you," Molly crowed. "We've been waiting so long to meet you, you just sounded so _scrumptious_!"

"So, what are you, then?" Stiles quavered, eyes darting around the room. "Werewolves?"

All three of them laughed, and something sunk in Stiles' stomach when he saw the ends of their teeth sharpened into stabby little tips, smaller than werewolf fangs but scary all the same. "Oh no, we're nothing like those barbarians," The barber chuckled.

"What then, vampires?" Stiles asked. "Please don't tell me you sparkle."

"Your little puppy hasn't told you anything, has he?" Natalie mused, tightening her grip on his chin. "I thought you were the _smart_ one."

Stiles racked through his mind, processing what she said. _His_ puppy? Stiles knew more about the supernatural world and being a werewolf than Scott did, and he was the only one in his friend group who didn't have a monthly problem. Isaac was clueless, he didn't even have a _point_ of existing other than beating Scott at video games and wearing multiple different scarves. He refused to be associated with Peter, and the only other werewolf he knew was Der–

Derek. She meant... Oh.

 _His_? That was new. Like, sure, they had the whole opposites-attract thing going on, and maybe they did exchange more sexual-tension-through-eye-contact than most people, but Stiles hadn’t thought it had been _that_ obvious. Or anyway, obvious enough that a gang of monsters would consider Derek Hale to be _his._

"Yeah, well, Derek has never been very forthcoming," Stiles shrugged. "He's kind of a shy guy."

Natalie cackled, throwing back her head and baring those little pointy teeth, which appeared to be growing longer by infinitesimally small increments.

"Shy? Oh, that's good. Yes, I like that one. _Shy Guy_."

"Hey, I'm always up for Mario-inspired nicknames," Stiles accepted. "What did you call him before, anyway? Mr. Grumpy Pants? Because I know he looks sort of angry and aggressive most of the time, but that is entirely the fault of his perpetually intimidating eyebrows. Underneath them, he's really just the shy kid. Like, the one in middle school who always sat in the front row on the far end with all of the horse-themed folders and notebooks. Only his had wolves on them."

"Such an incredibly funny boy," drawled Molly sarcastically, who clearly didn't share his sense of humor like Natalie did.

"To each her own," Stiles shrugged. "Anyway, what, exactly, did Derek not share with me that obviously could have helped in this situation?"

Natalie leaned over him and bared her teeth. "There's other monsters out there besides your typical Hollywood horrors, you know. Sometimes we feel a little left out. We aren't represented as well as all those big-time hotshots like vampires and mummies and, you know, _werewolves_."

"We talking 'inadequate' or 'inaccurate' representation? Not enough goblins in mainstream media? Or are you worried about how Disney portrays fairies as a lot less bloodthirsty and psychotic than they actually are? Am I going to be seeing 'Monster Pride' parades down Main Street any time soon?"

Natalie cackled again, while Molly appeared a touch exasperated. The barber was sorting through the sharp, pointy-looking torture devices with fingers that seemed far too long and spindly to be human. They were getting longer as Stiles watched, much like their teeth.

"I wish," Natalie giggled. "But if _we_ 'came out', I doubt we'd garner much support. Everyone would just run away screaming."

The barber finally selected a pair of shiny, sharp scissored blades, and advanced towards Stiles, leaning over and grabbing his jaw, starting to open his mouth even as Stiles struggled to keep it clamped shut.

Natalie's hand darted out to grab the barber's wrist.

"Todd, I know we usually eat the tongue first, but can we _please_ save it for later? At least until he's unconscious? I really want to talk to this one."

Todd obviously hesitated, while Stiles sang silently in his head. _Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd..._

"Come on," Natalie whined. "We never eat anyone this fun."

_The Demon Barber of Fleet Street..._

Todd sighed and relinquished his grip on Stiles' jaw. "Alright. Just this once."

Natalie squealed with joy, while Molly muttered vengefully under her breath.

"Can we get started, already?" Molly groaned. "I'm _hungry_."

"While I'm always happy to meet new monsters in the world that want to chew my face off, I'd really suggest you finish your evil villain monologue before taking off any chunks." Stiles blurted out. "Plus, uh, I'm a bit stringy. A tad iron deficient, you know, not very tasty. There's a reason I've survived around werewolves for this long, although I like to think it's my charming personality and perky nipples."

Todd blinked, and Natalie broke into a wide, disturbing grin. "Oh, honey, I'm sure you'll taste just fine." She crooned, taking a hand and running it through his overgrown mop of hair. Stiles winced, and she cackled. Natalie turned away to face Todd, who brandished a pointy-looking razor. "Let's start with something slow, shall we?"

Slow. Slow, okay, he could deal with that, he could do this. Stiles started to tense and un-tense his thigh muscles, shifting his hips subtly in attempts to position his phone in such a way that he could butt-dial successfully. At least he now had a phone with an actual keyboard; he'd stopped buying expensive touch-screen phones after he broke his third one three months ago. Another werewolf from a nomadic pack had thrown him against a tree, he’d gotten a concussion, cut his arm open on a stick, the usual. He tried not to look down his leg as he shook it, and as the phone started to slide up he began tensing his butt muscles instead. He saw Molly lick her pointy chops and froze in fear.

Oh, god, he was going to die twerking, this was really happening.

Stiles sputtered as Todd suddenly slammed a _very, very_ strong hand on his forearm, sending a tingling sensation through numb limbs. "Whoa, whoa, w-wait a minute, maybe we could work this out, I mean, at least buy me a drink first–"

Stiles hissed in pain as Todd drew his (sharp, so very sharp!) razor down the underside of his arm from bicep to wrist. It wasn’t very deep but was _bleeding_ an awful lot. Stiles gaped and gasped, his gaze snapping from his bleeding arm to Todd's face and back down again. With a sinking feeling in his gut he realized that Todd had purposefully and masterfully avoided his artery, and that these freaks knew a whole lot about what they were doing. And that he was so screwed.

He choked out incoherent protests as Todd drew the razor down his other arm in the same way, the sight of the blood making him dizzy and nauseated. The way they had tied him up sent the blood down the side of his arm in rivulets and into the slick, tilted service of the half-pipe structures, sending streams of blood into the buckets on either side of his tied-up ankles.

"Oh my god, you are so totally vampires," Stiles moaned, heart pumping wildly. "You're gonna drink my blood and everything."

"Oh, no, Stiles," Natalie smiled at him. "We like _so_ much more than that."

Before he could even blink Natalie sprang forward, hands planted on both armrests. She swung her head forward, fingers, teeth, and even _neck_ suddenly so much longer than they were before, and sunk her teeth into the meat of his shoulder. Stiles shouted in fear in pain, a short burst of sound, but then screamed loudly as Natalie thrust her head back again, jaw still clamped and taking a chunk of his shoulder with her. Todd slapped a large palm over Stiles' mouth, muffling his vocalized agony. Blood spurted from his shoulder, and Stiles struggled to breathe correctly as his shirt began to stain red. Natalie chewed loudly, smacking her lips together wetly, mouth and teeth bloody as she plucked a small bit of fabric from between her teeth and tossed it aside.

"You were right," She mused, grinning. "A little stringy."

"See, I told you," Stiles said weakly. "You know what a good way to soften stringy meat is? Purée. I've got a great purée recipe at home and really a superb blender, if you'd be so kind as to untie me I could run home and get them for you..."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Natalie giggled as Molly lifted something out of a low cabinet and slammed it onto the counter in front of him. _Oh god it was a Vitamix_. "We have our own."

The blood leaked faster out of his shoulder and wrists the harder his heart pounded.

"You know what, actually, stringy can be hearty every once in a while, you know what would be better than minced meat? A good sprinkling of oregano and a dab of sautéed onions, maybe mushrooms, seriously, there's nothing better, only takes half an hour..."

Molly studiously plugged in the Vitamix and Todd checked the blood buckets _oh god he was gonna puke_.

It was a fucking good thing that Stiles was such a fantastic twerker.

And that he had decided, after his third experience with being tied to a chair, that butt-dialing was a useful skill. Every single one of the number buttons was set as a speed-dial: half for Derek, half for Scott (yeah, sorry Isaac, there's just this lack of trust going both ways).

If he wiggled just right... Yes! His phone was in just the right place... All he had to do was grind down in a rolling motion, then clench the phone between both buttocks...

"Ack!" he yelped as Molly crouched between his legs and clamped her jaws at the soft, fleshy part of his upper thigh. Todd shook his head in what seemed to be actual affection and pulled another tool out of his pile of shiny metal objects.

_It was a fucking cheese grater._

Stiles was going to die and the last thing he had ever done was butt-dial Derek-or-Scott.

Stiles was going to die with his phone clenched between his ass-cheeks.

Stiles could see his obituary now. " _Stiles Stilinski, 17, eaten to death by demon barbers. Butt-dialed a friend before his passing. His final message was a chorus of girly shrieks and farts_."

_Because yes Stiles got gassy when scared shut up._

Todd rolled up Stiles' sleeve and held the grater to his upper arm.

"Oh god," Stiles moaned. "Please don't. Please don't, seriously..."

Todd pressed up, and Stiles screamed as _ribboning strips of his own flesh_ fell away from his arm and into the blood bucket.

Natalie pressed her mouth to the gaping wound on his shoulder and slurped. Molly was tugging a mouthful of meat out of his thigh. Blood dripped audibly into the buckets. The Vitamix was looming ominously in front of him.

He felt faint.

Then he remembered how Todd had promised to wait to eat his tongue " _at least until he was unconscious_ " and decided that staying awake and in pain was preferable to losing his tongue.

Molly gave a particularly viscous tug just as Todd grated up his arm again and Stiles' face crumpled in pain.

"Derek!" he screamed, voice cracking on a sob. "Oh god... Derek! Scott! Help!"

"Aw, look at him, crying for his puppy," Natalie mused, licking up his neck. Stiles shuddered. "He's not coming, baby. We've got this room soundproofed. No werewolves getting in."

Stiles was just about ready to sob from the sense of defeat that washed over him. He tugged futilely on all of his restraints, but they held on more than fast. Todd, apparently done with the cheese grater for the time being, turned back to his table of tools, sorting through them calmly. Stiles heaved out a panicked breath, lungs failing to expand correctly. Frustration and _more panic_ surged through his veins, which didn't make matters any better. Stiles dared to look over, straining his eyes and face muscles, and swallowed bile because _holy crap that was an ice cream scoop_.

Suddenly there was a vibration against his butt-cheeks, the sound of a muffled noise that the demon barbers obviously didn't hear. Scratch super-hearing off the list, then, thank God, he already had to deal with one of those.

Some sort of control washed over him, and he decided to try to get his captors to spew as much information as he could get them to in a five minute period or less. He clenched his buttocks and then began, hoping against hope that he really had managed to press the _talk_ button and not the _end call._

Oh, god. Spew.

"Why a... Barber shop?" Stiles heaved, snot sliding down his face. Molly stooped down with a knife to start slicing open the inside seam of his jeans, as if the chunk already missing from his thigh wasn’t already bad enough, and also which made him very uncomfortable. She clamped a hand near his femoral artery, and Stiles started speaking more hastily. "I mean, The Hair Saloon For Men? Really?"

"Oh, you'd be amazed just how many people are just so confused as to the workings of a hair salon," Natalie chuckled, making Stiles gasp with pain as she dug a long nail into the gaping wound in his shoulder, pulling it out to stick it in her mouth and suck on. "How many idiots just _walk in_ , see the friendly name, see a friendly face, and allow themselves to be... Manhandled."

"Swindled," Molly threw in.

"Eaten," Todd said bluntly. Stiles gulped.

"And no one's gonna notice that people just, walk back here and... Never come out?" He asked. "That's a little sketchy, even without the horrible punny name."

"We're nomadic creatures, dearie, and _so_ very careful," Natalie said. "We're civilized, unlike some monsters out there. We're not going to hole up in some abandoned distillery and draw teenagers to their death."

"Why not? Sounds fun," Stiles grated out, Molly dragging a blade up the side of his calf.

"These faces?" Natalie said, perking up. "They're the people that work here. At least, they _were_. Nice people. A little pathetic. People aren't going to suspect a familiar face. 'Oh yes, Donna, just come back here, I've got this _delightful_ special conditioner you've just _got_ to try.'" She cackled at her own joke. Molly grimaced.

"I see," Stiles stalled, wracking his brain for monsters that could shapeshift. Or were they using glamour? Or did they literally _take_ their victim’s form, like, were they wearing skinsuits?

Ugh. Gross.

Ugh. _Painful_. Todd tugged at a strip of flesh from the grating that hadn't disconnected from his arm. It broke away with a horrible sting and a wet noise and Todd popped it into his mouth, slurping it up like a spaghetti noodle.

"So, what are you, then?" Stiles asked. "Shapeshifters? Changelings? I feel like I deserve to know the identities of the monsters that are _currently snacking on my bleeding flesh!"_ Stiles raised his voice at the last part to fully inform Derek-or-Scott as to the urgency of the situation.

"Nothing overwritten like that," Natalie soothed, running her bloody lips down the side of his face, mouthing at his neck, pointed teeth poking at his carotid artery. He froze. "We're less well known, but _far_ more sophisticated." She nibbled at his neck without puncturing skin _thank god_. "Ever heard of a _ghoul,_ Stiles?"

Stiles _had_ heard about ghouls. He'd read a whole tome from Deaton's library called _Goblins, Ghosts, and Ghouls_ that listed myths and legends about each and cited which were true.

"Oh, yeah, I might've read a bit about them," he nodded. He raised his voice a little louder. "You mean, those monsters that feed off human flesh, take the appearance of their deceased victims, and have a particular dislike of _fire_?"

He stressed the "fire" and hoped that, if it was Scott, he understood the message he was attempting to convey.

"Exactly!" exclaimed Natalie gleefully. "Ooh, I really wish I could keep you. You're the funnest meal I've ever had, seriously."

"Most fun," corrected Stiles.

Natalie giggled. "You're so cute I could just _eat you up_."

"Oh god, again with the puns," Stiles moaned.

"Ghouls aren't barbarians, you see. Only a few feedings in one place, then we move on," Natalie explained. "What's a couple more missing people in a town like this? We've been here for months, and you're only our second feeding." Stiles' mind jumped to his dad talking about a college guy going missing over Christmas vacation on a visit home. His stomach sank into his toes. "We can afford to pick and choose, and well, you've just got something special about you, Stiles." She stepped behind him, dropping her face down to the curve of his neck. "I can taste it. You've got a... _Spark_."

Oh Jesus.

"Oh, that," Stiles tried to make his voice not waver. He wasn't particularly successful. "You see, I swallowed some paint as a kid, stuck a fork in an electrical socket. I'm a little messed up inside." Natalie came closer. Stiles' words began to mix together as he babbled. "No, I promise, I'm poison! You don't want to eat me, or drink me. No purée, don't take out my eyes, or my tongue, or my meat, I don't have that much, I'm skin and bones! I'm the worst chicken wing ever! Oh my god. Please don't, you don't want me, I stuck crayons up my nose!"

Molly lifted her face from where she was munching on his meat and scowled at Natalie.

"For god's sake, Natalie, please, I'll let you have the _whole_ tongue if you cut it off _right now_. _Make him stop talking_."

Natalie straightened, shrieking with joy. "The _whole tongue_? Really? No sharing?" She looked over to Todd, who shrugged as he _sharpened the ice cream scoop how was that even possible_.

"What?" Stiles asked sharply, as Natalie did a little dance and reached around him for the scissored blades from earlier. "No! But, I'm funny! I'm the funnest meal you've ever had! You wouldn't want to spoil that too soon, would you?"

Natalie shrugged, looking apologetic. "Sorry, sweetheart, the tongue is my favorite part, and it's such a _small_ muscle and usually I have to split it three ways." She reached for his jaw, and he struggled to turn his head away as much as the restraints allowed him to.

"No!" Stiles yelled, because he couldn't live without his tongue, he couldn't, how would he talk, how would he communicate? "No! Please, stop?"

Natalie licked Stiles' blood off her lips as she grabbed the sides of his jaw with one hand and tightened her grip, forcing his mouth open.

"Derek!" Stiles sobbed as Natalie lowered the scissors towards his mouth. " _DEREK_!"

Natalie froze as there was a very loud _thud_ that issued seemingly throughout the whole building. After a few seconds, it happened again. Natalie backed up, scissors still in her hand.

"Are you doing that?" she accused, eyes suddenly very murderous. "Did you do that?"

Stiles raised tingly, numb hands in a sad attempt at jazz hands, breath catching in his throat. "Magic."

"Did you lock the door?" Molly snapped.

"Of course I locked the door, I'm not a moron," Natalie growled. "I cancelled all appointments for the whole _day_ , the place is closed."

"Wait, you guys actually cut hair?" Stiles piped up nervously. Molly glared at him. Her nails sank into his thigh.

"Obviously not, since there's obviously _someone there_ ," Molly hissed at Natalie, venom dripping from her words. "This kid couldn't make a pen float to save his life, he's not doing that."

"Hey, I resent that."

"I told you _I took care of it_ ," Natalie barked.

Todd made a noise deep in his throat. "Then how in the hell–"

A massive thud erupted from the front of the store, the closed door to the room shaking on its hinges. Goosebumps erupted on Stiles' skin, the fear threading through him and the ridiculous hope in his heart the only thing keeping him conscious. Todd nodded at Molly, who huffed and walked towards the door. She pressed her ear up against it for a moment before quietly opening the door and stepping through it, closing it mostly but leaving it ajar. It was silent for a good two seconds before a scream rang out throughout the shop, high-pitched and definitely Molly, accompanied by a lot of thuds and grunts and growls. An odd sound followed, like the sound Stiles’ stove made when he finally succeeded in turning it on. By then, Todd had already moved forward towards the door, teeth fully elongated, knife in hand, face distorted. Before he even reached the door it was kicked open and off its hinges, the wood of the door hitting Todd in the chest and knocking him to the floor.

Derek rolled into the room, fully wolfed out, magic sideburns arrived and everything to get the party started. He swung out at Todd, his claws catching Todd’s throat and face and sending him spiraling into the wall. Todd flung himself at the werewolf, a scary shrieking sound tearing from his throat. Derek took a few hits and a swipe of the knife to his bicep before kicking the ghoul in the chest and away from him. He swept up a can of salon-brand Aerosol hairspray that he had dropped and held it in his right hand, index finger sparking a Zippo lighter and issuing a stream of fire from the can and onto Todd _like a freaking flamethrower_. The same unnatural shrieking noise issued from Todd's throat, this time filled with agony, as the fire ate at him.

Now it was _Stiles’_ turn for puns.

Stiles choked out a sound as Natalie whipped around him, knife at his throat. Derek looked up calmly from Todd's burning body as it writhed on the floor, eyebrows furrowing when he saw the ghoul behind Stiles. He let out a small sigh.

"I wouldn't," he grunted. Natalie sucked in heaving breaths behind Stiles.

"I will slit his throat," she seethed. "I will cut him open right in front of you and suck on his blood, Derek Hale. I'm going to make you pay, you're going to hear him _scream_ –"

In one swift motion, Derek picked up the steak knife at Todd's feet and swung it, the blade embedding itself in Natalie's forehead not three inches away from Stiles' own head. Natalie fell to the ground, knife clattering on the tile. Derek immediately moved to Stiles, undoing the leather binds on his ankles before moving toward his wrists.

"Holy shit," Stiles slurred, the world swimming in front of him. "That was awesome. Was like a fuckin' flamethrower, god, that was so hot."

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek said, voice coated in concern and anger and yet somehow still managing to make Stiles feel offended.

"I take offense to that," Stiles exclaimed, starting to rise out of the chair in objection, only to be halted in his attempt by the leather strap still wrapped around his forehead. He sank back into the seat with a gasp and grimaced as all of his bloody wounds started aching simultaneously. Now that the adrenaline of panic and rescue had faded, everything actually hurt even _worse_ than it had before.

"Oh god," he moaned as Derek undid the strap around his head. "But seriously, man, I just managed to keep my tongue firmly within my skull thanks to my charming dialogue, you should appreciate it, give it the credit it's due, man, fuckin’ _ow_..."

Derek heaved him into a standing position, and Stiles swayed slightly. Derek catalogued his injuries, eyes running up and down the length of his body with a constipated expression.

"You're hurt," Derek said, voice sounding small and worried, and yet still managing to convey frustration and exasperation.

"Well, yeah," Stiles scoffed, gesturing slightly. "If you hadn't noticed, I've been forcibly drained, grated, and partially eaten." He lifted his arms in demonstration of his injuries.

And blood squirted out of the gaping hole at his shoulder.

And landed on Derek's face.

"Ugh," Stiles said eloquently. Derek tensed his face and blinked, raising his eyebrows, jaw tight, looking pained. There was a spray of blood speckled across his nose. Something dark crimson and almost-solid dripped onto his upper lip.

"Sorry about that," Stiles said stupidly. He reached up to wipe the gummy red chunk off of Derek's mouth.

His shoulder spurted again. This time into Derek's right eye.

 _How had he managed to do that twice_.

"Yeah, so that happened," he stammered. Derek's eyes had snapped instinctively shut, and he was now glaring blankly at Stiles through one eye, the right one still squinted closed.

Then, Stiles seemed to suddenly remember that his _shoulder had squirted_ and found that to be distasteful and _very very bad_.

"So, I dunno 'bout you, but I th'nk I should get to a hospi'al," slurred Stiles, whose knees were suddenly very weak.

"Oh," he heard Derek say, like he was just realizing what had happened in the back room of a demon barber shop. "Oh. Uh. Come on, I have my car out front."

Stiles listed against Derek, eyes half-mast and fingers all tingly. His voice turned petulant. "Carry me.”

"No," Derek said simply. "It's only a little bit."

He started to walk forward, but stopped and turned when he realized that Stiles wasn't following him but instead was standing there like a flick of a wrist could bowl him over, eyes glassy and pained. He frowned. "Stiles."

Stiles' eyes snapped up at him, lips slightly parted. "What?"

"Come on," Derek retreated a couple steps and lifted Stiles' non-spurting arm, draping it across Derek's shoulder and putting a hand on his hip. "Why didn't you call earlier?"

Stiles blinked as they stepped into the main room. He saw the still burning body of Molly on the tile floor and felt faintly nauseated. "I 's a little... Tied up."

Derek huffed. Stiles slipped on a puddle of blood and stumbled. Derek, in a panic, grabbed Stiles' forearm, which elicited a weak cry from him. Derek situated Stiles against him again, continuing to move toward the door.

"Sorry," he grunted.

"Derek," Stiles gasped. "What 'bout the bodies? You didn't... you didn't burn Natalie."

"I'll take care of it."

They were almost to the door. Stiles' head fell against the space between Derek's neck and shoulder. He panted out breaths that made Derek wince. "Call Scott."

Derek stole a glance at Stiles' pale face. "I'm going to take care of you first."

It was like he hadn't heard Derek. He probably hadn't.

"Call Scott. Der'."

Derek gritted his teeth. "Okay, Stiles."

Derek let go of Stiles' hip to open the door, quickly making sure no one was in the parking lot. Stiles made a small, tired noise.

"Hey, Derek?" he asked. "I think I'm gonna pass out now."

"What? No, don't," Derek ordered, but Stiles was already beginning to fold over onto him. "Stiles, come on, don't..."

"Whoopsies," He sighed. His sight tunnel-visioned as he tipped forward, and he felt strong arms wrap around him, catching him, before he finally allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness.

 

[ . . . ]

 

Stiles woke up in the hospital, which was an incredible relief. First of all, it meant that he hadn't actually died and wouldn't need an obituary. Secondly, something had probably been done to fix his spurting shoulder by now, which was super great.

He moaned and turned his head to see which doofus was waiting attentively at his bedside.

His dad was a given, slumped foreword in a chair, dressed in a pair of jeans and the old V-neck t-shirt that Lydia joked made him look like a DILF – which was, uh, _insulting_ , that his dad was more fuck-worthy in Lydia Martin's eyes than he had ever been – and looking like he had been trying very unsuccessfully not to fall asleep before conking out in what was obviously the most uncomfortable position ever.

And, ah, yes, Stiles' favorite doofus, sitting in another chair up against the wall, head tilted back and mouth hanging open in sleep. Scott looked like he hadn't even _tried_ not to fall asleep. Stiles could see one of those U-shaped neck pillows on the floor next to him, obviously having fallen at some point during Scott’s slumber.

In any case, Stiles was having none of it. He was bed-ridden in a blank white hospital room with the television remote out of reach, and he had not survived being munched on by a trio of ghouls to die of _boredom_.

"Yo, entertain me," Stiles said loudly, directing most of the statement at his father, who did not have Scott's werewolf hearing.

His dad started awake, snuffling slightly. Scott awoke slowly, then choked on the spit that had collected in his mouth and jerked forward, coughing.

"Son?" his dad asked, leaning forward and reaching out to run a hand across his forehead, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. "How are you feeling?"

Stiles shrugged. "As well as can be expected when one is hyped up on pain meds and still reeling from a life-threatening situation."

"Dude, Derek said you got eaten by _ghouls_ ," Scott prodded, sounding excited. It was easy to sound excited about being eaten by ghouls when you'd never actually had any personal experience with that particular horror. Apparently.

His dad's expression tensed and the Sheriff sighed, shoulders slumping and head shaking in disbelief.

"How do you manage to run into trouble everywhere you go?" he asked forlornly. "The _barber shop_. I've been going there for thirteen years and nothing bad ever happened. You go there _once_ and you almost get yourself killed."

Stiles shrugged. "Sorry! I'm a monster magnet. It's my charismatically enticing 'easy victim' persona." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "The trick is being the only human in a pack of werewolves. All the monsters are like, 'Ooh! Easy pickings!'"

Scott laughed. His dad did not look amused.

Then Scott shook his head in amazement. "I can't believe it, though! Wow! Real-life ghouls forced you into a jacked-up barber's chair, strapped you down, and _ate you_!"

"Yeah, it was super crazy," Stiles said flippantly, waving a hand loosely. He decided that if everyone assumed that he'd been forced into the chair and strapped down against his will, he wasn't going to correct them. Telling then that he'd voluntarily been restrained because he'd just assumed it was a part of the hair-cutting process sounded... What was the word? Ah, yes: _imbecilic_.

He imagined telling Derek. How the meanie would roll his eyes with an expression of disdain and condescendingly call him an " _Idiot_."

No way. Uh-uh. He was taking that particular fact-nugget with him _to his grave_.

He looked down at his hands and found his forearms wrapped completely in gauze. He held them up to inspect.

"I look like a suicide survivor," he observed.

"You had slashes all up your arms! The ghouls drained, like, so much blood! You had to get a transfusion! And there were _chunks_ bitten out your shoulder! And your thigh! You looked _messed up_ , man!"

Scott looked so earnest and eager that Stiles guessed that he hadn't yet realized how close to actually dying Stiles had been.

"I'm glad that the fact that bits of me look like hamburger helper excites you, dude," Stiles said sarcastically, but Scott was visibly fooled by his serious tone and deadpan expression.

His dad, on the other hand, was not tricked by Stiles' glamour.

"They gave you plastic surgery," he told Stiles, putting his hand on top of Stiles' hand. "You'll look perfectly normal in those areas. The only scars you're going to have are on your wrists and your upper arm, where you were, uh, grated..?" His dad broke off, looking pained, emotion flashing in his eyes.

Stiles nodded along to his dad's statement. "Oh, good. I won't have any unsightly chunks missing from areas, I'll just look like someone with self-harm issues who also does not know how to use a cheese-grater properly. What a relief." He brushed imaginary sweat off his forehead and was annoyed by the bangs that flopped back into his face. He bitterly thought that the ghouls could have stood to cut his hair before eating him.

"The doctor says they did a good job with the stitches and everything, those scars will barely be visible," encouraged Scott.

"Hallelujah," Stiles said. He glanced down at his torso, spotting the excessive amount of gauze wrapped around his right shoulder and across his chest. "Scratch what I said, I look like a burn victim."

"I mean, at least they didn't _actually_ burn you?" Scott failed at offering solace.

"I don't know, they looked like they would've liked to see me medium rare," Stiles muttered, and his dad winced. "At least I wasn't Vitamixed."

His dad choked on air. " _Vitamixed_?"

"Oh, yeah, it was a swell time." Stiles said. "I made a wise-ass remark, they brought out the blender, Todd had an ice cream scoop, it was great bonding."

"Your dad shut the place down," Scott piped in. "They went in there and totally put crime scene tape on everything.”

“Derek told me about what you said, about how the ghouls, how they don’t like fire?” his dad said, the lines on his forehead deepening. “I made sure all three of them were quickly and quietly cremated. You don’t have to worry about them.”

Scott, apparently, found other information more exciting than the fact the ghouls that had snacked on Stiles’ man-meat were definitely dead. “They found the back room where the ghouls had you, there were like _two buckets_ half-filled with blood!"

"Good thing I'm an average Joe in every sense of the word," Stiles murmured. "AB-positive, baby."

"Stiles, can you…" the Sheriff put his head in his hands. "Can you just... Stop it, with the monsters, for a little while? Just stop getting hurt all the time, kid."

"I can't," Stiles deadpanned. "I'm too sexy."

His dad groaned and rubbed his temples. Stiles decided to spare him the oncoming aneurism and turned to Scott. "So, fill me in. What went down between my very manly loss of consciousness and now?"

"Derek called me from the car, saying you passed out and were bleeding all over his seats. Isaac and I rushed here and called your dad, they took you in, gave you some fake skin, and... Uh. Yeah. Isaac's at Subway getting us sandwiches."

"Where's Derek?" Stiles asked, starting to feel the tug of sleep encroach toward him again, like what the hell, he'd been awake for five minutes. Scott shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Stiles got the feeling he wanted Isaac to come back with sandwiches immediately.

"I don't know," he confessed. "I mean, he carried you in and left afterwards. He looked real sick, like he was gonna puke. He called me to make sure you were okay, but he hasn't been around since."

"That bastard," Stiles yawned. "At least he carried me. I won."

"Maybe you should get some rest, son." His dad ran his thumb along the back of Stiles' hand. "You get to come home tomorrow."

"Do I have to go to school Monday?" He asked. His face sunk at one glance at his father's expression. "I can't catch a break. Can you at least give me a haircut, I'm sick of looking like Justin Bieber."

His dad smiled fondly and nodded. "Yeah, no more barber shops for you, kid."

"But really," Scott said. "You look like a Chia Pet."

"Yes, thank you, I'm aware," Stiles moaned. "Ugh, I'm about to just get another buzz cut, I'm so done. I am also so done with places with punny names. Never again. I should have learned my lesson with En-Thai-Sing."

Both the Sheriff and Scott winced, obviously remembering the experience. "It's okay," Scott offered. "Next time, I'll take you to Super Cuts."

"Thank god," Stiles turned his head into the pillow. "Now get out of my sight, it's nap time. Get me curly fries. I don't want ketchup."

 

[ . . . ]

 

The next day, Stiles was discharged with a relatively clean bill of health and a maternal shake of the head from Mrs. McCall. He was instructed to drink juice and eat cookies, so he did. Within the day, all of the Girl Scout cookies from one of the Deputy's daughters were gone, and they needed more orange juice. Also Stiles had peed at least three times in four hours and god did _that_ pull on his thigh.

His dad was extremely apologetic when he told Stiles that he had to go back the station to deal with more paperwork and couldn't give him a proper haircut until the next night. Stiles took one look in the mirror and decided that there was no way in hell that he was going to look like an overgrown hedgehog any longer. He couldn't bring himself to handle scissors near his own face, and resolved to take Scott up on the Super Cuts offer.

But he had to do something first.

Derek hadn't answered the texts that Stiles had sent him, and so he decided that he was going to talk to the man face-to-face, whether the recipient liked it or not.

It was probably not.

Stiles tapped his fingers on his desk and turned slowly in his spinny-chair, spinning from side to side. The problem with trying to talk to Derek when he didn't want to be talked to was the whole werewolf-with-supernatural-avoidance-skills issue. Stiles could try to corner him at his loft, but if Derek really didn't want to talk to him, he could always vault out to the fire escape when he heard Stiles coming.

There also wasn't any guarantee that Derek was at the loft. He could be lurking in an alley downtown, or around the crime scene at the Hair Saloon for Men, or galavanting through the forest to escape from his manpain.

Stiles slid his phone towards him from across the desk and sent Derek a quick text. Then he reclined in his spinny-chair, thrust outward with his legs to roll back across the room, and waited.

He counted seven laps around his bedroom before his window was slammed open with force and Derek climbed through it, eyebrows furrowed and ready for battle, glower in place.

His gaze flitted around the room before settling on Stiles, who waved.

"What's wrong?" Derek asked, eyebrows menacing.

"What's wrong? Do I need something to be wrong for a reason to hang out with you?" Stiles asked, offended, putting his hands on his hips.

Derek pulled his phone out of his pocket and waved it. "You texted 'help.'"

Stiles nodded. "Well, yes I did. As in, help me, I'm bored and I need someone to talk to, come over, I haven't seen you since you generously donated your time and effort to rescue me from ghouls, we should totally hang."

Derek's eyebrows drew closer together. He turned his phone and looked at the screen. "That's not what it said."

"You gotta learn subtext, dude. Read between the lines. It was all there."

"How am I supposed to tell _that_ 'help' from the 'help' that means your life is genuinely threatened?" Derek asked.

"There will be a distinct difference in the amount of exclamation points, and possibly capital letters."

"Oh," Derek nodded, tucking his phone back into the pocket of his ridiculous leather jacket.

Stiles had to hold in the "Awww" that comes with successfully teaching a lie to an innocent child and having them accept it as truth without question: adorable.

"You've been avoiding me," he said instead, pointing an accusatory finger at Derek. Derek froze.

"I haven't," he objected. "I've been busy."

Stiles pouted and kicked at the ground, spinning in a circle. "I've been texting you."

"I've been busy," Derek repeated, and Stiles noted his ears tingeing pink even as his eyebrows grew more and more aggressive.

Stiles crossed his arms. "I just wanted to thank you," he said, "For not letting them turn me into a monster Lunchables. And also for arriving in time to allow me to keep my tongue. It was very valiant of you."

Derek hunched his shoulders and grimaced. "It wasn't valiant," he growled. "I've gotten used to it."

Stiles sputtered, sitting forward in his chair and nearly toppling over. "What?" he exclaimed. "Saving my life has become a _chore_ to you?" He flailed angrily. "Well, buddy, maybe the Stiles-saving has become a bit tedious to you, but the fact that I'm sitting here, living and breathing and _talking_ and having retained the majority of my flesh, is a pretty big fucking deal to _me_."

Stiles sat back, breathing heavily. Derek ducked his head.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah, whatever." He ran his hand through his hair and scowled at the unruly locks that stubbornly remained in his scalp. "I wish they'd cut it before going all Hannibal on me," he muttered. "I should just buzz it."

Derek started at that, his expression stricken. "What?"

"I'm getting sick of all this," Stiles gestured. "It's getting out of control, and it already almost got me killed once this week. And remember that goblin last month that fancied himself a wig? And the brownie that thought I'd make an excellent wife because of my perfect shade of brown? Maybe it's more trouble than it's worth."

"Don't," Derek blurted. Stiles raised an eyebrow at him, tugging at his bangs and finding that they were _still far too long_ , much to his distaste. "Don't cut your hair."

He was blushing. It wasn't just his ears anymore, it was his face too.

"Why not?" Stiles asked, incredulous. "Might spare you a lot of Stiles-saving in the long run."

Derek stood stiffly, shoulders squared, hands stuffed into his pockets. His blush was slowly spreading to his neck. "Don't... I... Your hair, it..."

Stiles dropped his hands into his lap, mouth agape in disbelief.

"Dude," he asked slowly. "Have you been avoiding me because my hair _flips your switch_?"

"What?" Derek barked. "No."

"It _does_ ," Stiles gasped, leaning forward in his spinny chair. "It totally does, oh my god."

"I... I don't know what..."

"Stop stuttering and admit it!" Stiles ordered, pointing a finger at him. "My horrible Bieber-hair makes your dick happy!"

Derek's face dropped. "I'm leaving."

"No!" Stiles grabbed a corner of his bed-sheet with his okay-ish shoulder and pulled himself forward, because he was under no circumstances going to stand up and use his crutches. Those things might be good for his thigh, but they were killer on his shoulder.

Derek paused on his way toward his open window, shoulders tensed.

Stiles pleaded hopefully. "C'mon, I… This shit is coming off one way or another because I am a strong independent woman who don't need no man, but if it makes your dick happy I need to know. For science. Also so I can correctly hypothesize whether or not you're the one to accompany Danny's little sister to a One Direction concert and/or have a life size cutout of J-Biebs in your bedroom."

"Stiles, shut up." Derek said. Oh god his whole face and neck area were bright red this was glorious.

" _Tell me_ ," Stiles whined. "I was nearly eaten my ghouls, come on, tell me tell me tell me tell me–"

" _I like your hair, okay?_ " Derek growled. Stiles leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. "It... It looks nice."

"It looks nice." Stiles deadpanned.

"Yeah." Derek nodded, because he was a failwolf that struggled with words.

"I'm happy that my hair looks luscious, but that doesn't answer my question as to whether or not it's a flag raiser, because if it is I'll totally take stock photos before I send it to its grave."

"Stiles."

"And this is only further proving to me that you are indeed in love with Justin Bieber and all that him and his former hair stands for, even though now all he does is take drugs and deny that he's from Canada–"

"I _do not_ like Justin Bieber!" Derek snapped, which elicited a snort from Stiles. He flipped his bangs back dramatically.

"Yeah, you keep saying that, buddy, but I know the truth, you can't deny these sexy hair follicles, even JB is jealous of this piece of–"

Stiles was cut off as Derek suddenly surged forward, capturing the armrests of his spinny-chair in both hands and aggressively bumping mouths with him. Derek's momentum sent the spinny-chair backwards into the wall, taking Stiles and Derek with it as Derek tried to somehow gently _eat his face_ and _oh my god_ he was so into it. Stiles' large hands hovered awkwardly for a moment before deciding to snake their way onto Derek's lower back and shoulder and pulling him closer. Derek's hand flew up to Stiles' face, tangling them together, before his fingers grasped for a hold in Stiles' hair and pulled softly. Stiles gasped into Derek's mouth.

"My dad's not home," he said. "He won't be back 'til eight."

Derek tilted his forehead forward, disconnecting their lips. "I know."

Oh, they were kissing again. Whoa. Good. Kissing was good.

"Oh my god," Stiles panted.

"Shut up."

Derek began to pull away, but Stiles caught his stubbly chin in his hand. "No no, don't do that."

Stiles could feel a small smile on Derek's lips as they continued again. Derek parted his mouth. Stiles knew, contextually, what that meant. It meant tongue-touching.

Tongue-touching was even better than bumping mouths. Tongue-touching was obviously what all the hype was about. Stiles was very enthusiastic about the tongue-touching.

Maybe too enthusiastic. He wondered if Derek minded the fact that he was practically slobbering all over Derek’s face. Stiles didn’t think he was doing it right. Teeth-clacking and slobbering probably wasn’t actually supposed to happen, and it probably wasn’t very sexy.

Stiles tried to pull away to apologize for his kissing ineptitude, but Derek kept one hand entangled in Stiles' hair, keeping their mouths locked. Obviously Derek didn’t mind Stiles’ sloppy snogging.

He used his other hand to grab Stiles' shoulder and lift him out of the chair. Derek gracefully turned them around and fell back into it, Stiles on top of Derek and his legs hooked around the back of the chair, ass practically on Derek's lap. Hold it, no, ass _totally_ on Derek’s lap, because he could definitelyfeel the _switch_ that his hair had _flipped_ through his jeans, yes, that was it pressing into his ass, holy fuck, this was one-hundred percent better than he had ever imagined it. And _boy_ , had Stiles imagined it.

Derek ran his fingers through Stiles' hair, making his scalp tingle. The discovery that Derek Hale was a hair-puller might literally be the crowning jewel of Stiles Stilinski’s list of life achievements.

Of course, Stiles utilized the moments their lips parted to talk.

"So, yeah. Thanks for the, uh, saving me from ghouls and stuff," he said. "The whole not-becoming-a-Stiles-snack thing."

"Stop _talking_ about it," Derek groaned.

Stiles thought his open mouth looked pretty appetizing. He decided that stopping talking actually sounded pretty okay.

Stiles was pretty sure he lost time. When he was next fully aware, both of them had their shoes off, but their shirts were still on, because life's a bitch that way. Stiles had a hand on Derek's chest while Derek still had both hands in Stiles' mop of unruly hair. Stiles raised his eyes and made eye-contact with Derek.

"Hey there," he said weakly. "Fancy seeing you here."

Derek huffed. "If... If you really want to, I mean, if you really want to cut your hair, you don't need to go to a barber."

"There is no way I am going to school looking like this."

"I'll do it," Derek said gruffly.

"What?" Stiles leaned back. Derek frowned.

"I'll cut your hair."

"You can cut hair?" Stiles asked incredulously. "How is that a thing one learns?"

"Laura was really good at it," Derek explained. "I... I learned a couple things."

"Can I trust you with scissors?" Stiles wondered suspiciously.

"Do you trust me with claws?" Derek countered.

Stiles pulled his lips to one side. "Enough."

"I won't chop it all off," Derek promised. "It'll look like it did during Christmas. I... I can layer it and everything."

"Oh my god, this is so hot."

Derek's eyebrows furrowed and he ducked his head. "Shut up, Stiles."

Stiles shook his head and put his palms firmly on each of Derek's pecs. "Oh, _no_ you don't, Mister. We just made out for fifteen minutes. You do _not_ get to tell me to shut up."

Derek glowered and clenched his jaw. Stiles glared back.

Stiles felt Derek's nipples harden under his hands.

"Oh my god!" he exclaimed gleefully, rubbing Derek's chest energetically and causing Derek to redden again, eyes dark, pupils blown. "You totally get off on me taking charge! You like my Bieber-hair _and_ you like my bossy attitude! Oh, man, you are _never_ gonna live this down..."

Stiles yelped as Derek lifted him bodily with both hands gripped underneath his thighs, and deposited him unceremoniously onto his bed.

"Whoa!" Stiles exclaimed as Derek turned away from him. "Where are you going?"

Derek looked back at him and raised an eyebrow. "I'm going to get the scissors."

"Oh," Stiles nodded. "Oh! Before you go, give me your cellphone."

Derek tucked his hand into his pocket and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Why?"

"Nothing nefarious, I promise," Stiles promised, raising both hands. A moment later, Derek's phone smacked him in the left shoulder.

"Wow, thanks," Stiles muttered, picking it up. "You're lucky that wasn't my injured shoulder, you might have burst the stitches, ruined the plastic surgeon's best efforts, dude, hamburger helper and bloody bits spurting everywhere, seriously, you remember that, don't you?" Derek looked simultaneously pained and nauseated. "Yeah. Anyway. Hmm. If I were to guess Derek Hale's password in one try..." He pondered for a moment, then typed in a guess. "Dude? Really? 'Pack?' Could you _get_ any more predictable? Alright, here we are, let's go..."

He held the phone in front of him with both hands and struck a pose before snapping a picture. He fiddled with the phone for a few more seconds before tossing it back to Derek, who caught it easily then gazed at the screen, looking shocked.

"A parting gift, my hair to you," Stiles told him, pressing a hand to his chest. "Now whenever you miss it, just look at that picture and think of me." In several different ways, Stiles hoped. In several different positions.

The picture was super great, really, Stiles was proud. His hair all smooth and swishy, his eyes narrowed just slightly, his lips barely parted in a slight pout, his eyebrows communicating a vague look of confusion. Basically, Biebs as he used to be when Stiles was in seventh grade, pre-pubescent lesbian hair and all.

Derek stared at the picture for a long, silent moment. Then he turned to exit.

"I'm gonna go get the scissors," he muttered, sounding gruff and slightly strangled. Stiles didn't miss the way he used his palm to subtly adjust his crotchal area.

"They're in the bathroom drawer!" he called as Derek left speedily.

Stiles had set the picture as his contact pic. Oh yeah, he was _so_ abusing that precious reaction by calling Derek, like, ten times a day. Just to sing Bieber's classics at him and listen to him be uncomfortable.

His life was so perfect right now. Plastic surgery and all.

Derek took several minutes longer than he should have to retrieve the scissors, which Stiles took as a good sign. A he-had-to-wait-for-his-awkward-boner-to-go-down sign. All in all, really, a fantastic sign.

When Derek returned, he was carrying the scissors and a towel, which he draped across Stiles' shoulders while scowling aggressively.

"So super fancy," Stiles nodded. "Is this what they do in the barber shops when the barbers aren't trying to eat you?"

"How else would I catch the cut hair?" Derek asked. Stiles shrugged.

"Before the buzz cut, my mom and dad just cut it in the bathroom and then swept. Nothing like this. I feel pampered."

"It's not pampering, it's being clean," Derek growled.

"What, do you object to pampering me, Der-Bear? Because I have to let you know, that's kind of a deal breaker for me. I refuse to date a man that won't rub my feet and buy me chocolate-covered strawberries on occasion."

Derek ran a comb through his hair and coughed.

"I'll rub your feet," he said. "If you want me to."

Stiles smirked and inwardly crooned at the image of Derek, sitting at the opposite end of the couch as Stiles lay across it, taking his foot carefully in both hands and kneading it while regulating his werewolf strength and also trying to avoid Stiles' foot odor, which had to be pungent at so close a range, especially with 'wolfy senses. He tried to thoroughly wash his feet, honest. Sometimes. Some smells just don't go away.

"What about the strawberries?" asked Stiles eagerly. The comb continued to run through his hair, catching occasionally on small tangles.

"The store-bought ones don't taste right," Derek said in a tense voice. "I'll make them for you."

Stiles really could have swooned right then at the mental image of Derek standing barefoot in his kitchen in a pair of low-hanging jeans, wearing a black V-neck that clung deliciously to his hips, stirring a pot of melting chocolate over the stove, dipping a finger in and then putting said chocolate-dipped finger into his mouth, sucking the chocolate off, cheeks hollowing...

Oh god.

"Just... Just watch the scissors, will you?" Stiles said breathlessly as Derek raised the pair of blades to his hair to trim the back. "I have enough pieces of me missing for one week. Maybe next time, though, I'll let you take the right ear as a token of my favor."

Derek didn't say anything, determinedly snipping at his hair with his expression set. Stiles could imagine the bottomless pit of sadness echoing in his eyes as he watched Stiles' beautiful locks fall onto the towel.

"I can hear 'Taps' playing in the distance," Stiles tutted. Jesus, his head felt so much _lighter_ already, how did girls cart around so much hair on their heads? Stiles’ was only a couple inches, Lydia’s was at _least_ a couple feet. And people said boys were stronger than girls.

"It's not that big a deal," Derek grumbled.

"Don't lie, I can hear your inner man-tears, they’re streaming down your face and conducting ballads about your secret love for the Biebs." Stiles said. "We'll have to hold a funeral, I'll get a shoebox from my closet, we can dig a hole in the backyard, or burn it. You can keep the ashes. Of course, you'll have to prepare a eulogy, I expect nothing short of the highest praise."

"It's greasy," Derek said pointedly.

"Okay, I've been busy!" Stiles retaliated. "You know, impending death and all that? I've been having trouble with tiled floors. I am a victim."

Derek made a little huffing sound in response, breathing deeply and calmly as he gracefully attacked Stiles' hair with the scissors. Stiles tapped his fingers on his thigh, his foot tapping spasmodically. God, how did people sit through this for more than twenty minutes? Buzzing it off was so much easier, less complicated, no fuss. This was fuss. This was so much fuss.

Derek started humming quietly under his breath, something Stiles had never heard Derek do before. He sat there listening to Derek's voice, a remarkably smooth tone floating over notes in a deep register. It was nice, and calming. So of course, Stiles had to ruin it.

"If you start singing _Sweeney Todd_ I will put something pointy in your neck," Stiles mentioned nonchalantly. "Preferably a fork. I'd settle for my own blunt, bitten fingernails."

Derek started laughing softly, which, fuck him. Stiles shifted on the bed, ready to give the beat down, but Derek put a hand on his shoulder to keep him sitting, his palm warm and steady. Stiles melted down into the mattress, damn Derek and his magic werewolf hands.

"I'm wounded." Stiles said. "Injured. I can't handle this sort of betrayal, not from my best life-saving-and-mutual-sexual-tension friend. I can't believe it."

"I promise not to sing show tunes, Stiles." Derek said, running his fingers over Stiles' scalp, oh god, yes _please_. Stiles made a happy noise deep in his throat when Derek stopped so that he would keep doing it. Head rubs were the gift of god, and when given by Derek's magic werewolf hands... Geez, he was sleepy.

"Done," Derek announced, gingerly removing the towel from Stiles' shoulders. Stiles sprung to his feet as fast as his injured thigh would allow and hobbled over to the mirror (he was in _recovery_ ), stumbling a bit on the journey. He looked at his reflection, running his hands through his hair to spike it up a bit.

"Oh my god, it looks good!" Stiles exclaimed, turning to look at the sides. "I... I look sexy!"

"It looked good earlier, too," Derek admitted softly. “At Christmas.”

"Bet you wish you got me for Secret Santa now, huh," Stiles teased. "Or vice versa. I'd be happy to give you gifts. Or sexual favors. That was implied. All Allison got me was a movie I had already illegally downloaded and a wolfy keychain, which I do actually appreciate, it is _adorable_."

"A wolf keychain?" Derek asked, raising an eyebrow. " _Now_ who's being cliche?"

It took Stiles a second, but then he widened his eyes and shook his head, wagging a finger at Derek. "Oh no, sir, my wolf keychain is _ironic_. Your password is cliche. There's a difference. I wear my keychain for the smiles and laughs that the inside-joke prompts from my compadres. Your phone's password is 'pack' because you're tragically unoriginal and sickeningly sentimental."

Derek sighed and rolled his eyes, carefully folding up the towel to keep Stiles' fallen hair held inside it. Stiles eyed the towel and did his very best, most horrible leer, leaning one arm on his desk so that he was hunched over, his thigh stinging slightly.

"Feel free to take that home with you, big guy," he told Derek. "You know." He winked exaggeratedly. "To sniff."

Derek scowled and dropped the towel onto Stiles' bed. "Can you be serious for one minute, Stiles."

"I was being deathly serious. I don't mind. It'll make me _happy_ to think of you being _happy_. It's a mutually beneficial sort of thing."

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked up at Stiles' ceiling, as though upon it was written some sort of spell to make Stiles shut up. Sorry, babe. Not there.

"Then, just... Stop it with the, with the sexual innuendos while I'm trying to..."

Stiles straightened up, leaning forward a bit, curiously. "Trying to what?"

Derek stuffed his hands into his pocket and glared aggressively at Stiles' pillow. "Trying to ask you out."

There was a moment of silence.

"Seriously?" Stiles gaped.

Derek nodded curtly, pulling one hand out of his pocket to rub the back of his neck nervously. "There's this coffee place in the next city, they make their own whipped cream."

Derek peered at Stiles out of the corner of his eyes. Stiles laughed in disbelief.

"Seriously? You're asking me out to coffee?" He spotted Derek's mouth tightening and held out his hands to mollify him. "I mean, not that I'm complaining. But it's been, like, two years of mutual life-saving, mostly-unresolved sexual tension, and eye-sexing from across short distances. I figured we'd be skipping past the coffee and movie-theater dates and straight to the supper-and-cherry-pie, you know, with an hour of fellatio to cap it off."

Derek stared at him blankly. "You're underage."

Stiles put his hands on his hips, affronted. "Are you seriously saying that my Bieber hair finally got you to touch tongues with me and I _still_ have to wait until I'm eighteen to lose my V-card?"

"It's the law," Derek stated.

"So?"

"Your dad's the sheriff, Stiles."

Stiles sighed and nodded. "Okay. Good point. We'll wait for the sex until I'm totally legal. Coffee's fine."

"Good coffee," Derek promised.

He took several nervous steps towards Stiles, then reached up to gently cup Stiles' face in both hands. His hands were slightly rough, and warm. He moved his hand to run his fingers through Stiles' newly cut hair, then bent forward to press a chaste, but firm kiss to Stiles' lips. Stiles reciprocated.

It wasn't like the heat of spontaneity and passion from before. Stiles missed the tongue-touching. But it was nice, anyway. It felt warm, and soft, and comforting. It felt... Permanent? Like, long-term, almost. Like they were really, finally boyfriends, after all the life-saving and exchanged glances and mutual stares and having Derek on half his speed-dial. Like a promise of future hugs and hand-holding and cuddling and foot-rubbing and chocolate-covered-strawberry-making and hair-cutting.

"Whoa," Stiles breathed after Derek finally pulled away. "Can I call you my ‘boo’?"

"No," Derek whispered back, but he was smiling, hands still at Stiles' cheeks, one thumb softly brushing back and forth on his temple. He dropped his hands regretfully after a few seconds, and moved away towards the still-open window.

"What about 'baby'?" asked Stiles in a slightly raised voice as Derek climbed out of the window and jumped down to the yard.

"No!" Derek called in response.

Stiles ran to the window as fast as his pained hobble would allow him and stuck his head out, looking around for Derek, who had already disappeared.

"What about 'Snuggle Bug'?" he called out the window. After a moment, he could hear a soft "No, Stiles!" from somewhere fairly far away. Damn werewolf speed.

"What about 'Sweetiepie Studmuffin'?" shouted Stiles. He craned his neck and listened with all his might and grinned when he couldn't hear a response. He was _so_ calling Derek his Sweetiepie Studmuffin...

His phone suddenly buzzed and he went to his desk to pick it up. It was a text from Derek.

 _No_ , it read. Stiles scowled. Then the phone buzzed again, another text popping up. _Coffee. Fri after school. Ill pick you up. Youll love the whipped cream, I promise_.

Stiles grinned at his phone and fired a text back.

_What's this place called so i can tell my dad?_

A second later, and Derek responded. _Its called See You Latte. Its 25 min away_.

Stiles stared at his phone for a solid three minutes, gaping at the name of the cafe. He wondered if there was some malevolent deity behind all of this.

Because, no way. He thought he'd learned his lesson, finally, after En-Thai-Sing, but he really _had_ learned it after his delightful experience at the Hair Saloon For Men.

Then his phone vibrated again in his hands, and Stiles checked the text and found that Derek had sent him a picture. A picture of a heart-patterned mug of hot chocolate, topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream that was drizzled with lines of chocolate that formed the outline of a smiling kitty. Stiles recognized Derek's hand wrapped around the mug's handle.

Derek liked this place enough that he once took a picture of his hot chocolate. It was practically Instagram-worthy.

Stiles licked his lips at the thought of Derek holding the same heart-patterned mug, lifting it to take a sip of motherfucking _hot chocolate_ how did he make that sound so hot, lowering the mug back to the table and licking off his whipped-cream mustache, a little spot remaining at the tip of his nose. Stiles swallowed, imagining himself leaning across the small coffee table to lick the spot off.

 _Ok_ , Stiles texted back. Because, really, his whole punny-business-phobia was ridiculous. What bad thing could possibly happen in a coffee shop?

**Author's Note:**

> This was definitely a great deal happier/funnier than our first collaboration. It was pretty fantastic to work on. There will definitely be more collaborations to follow. We enjoy ourselves far too much.


End file.
